


Afterglow

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=130975353#t130975353"> this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme - Lestrade calls Sherlock and John in for a case, and he's surprised when Sherlock is almost... nice. No cracks about anyone's intelligence, he explains things without being asked, smiling, humming... Lestrade is afraid he's high. Turns out, nope, he just finally slept with John. This is what Sherlock looks like when he gets laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterglow

Lestrade reluctantly pulled out his phone.

“You’re not calling him in.” Donovan sounded as disappointed as if she’d caught him smoking round the back of the Yard.

“Look at it,” said Lestrade, sweeping his arm round to encompass the bizarre scene. “We’ve got two dead Freemasons, three notes in code, four clocks all showing different times, no murder weapon and we had to chisel our way in through concrete. _And_ the sodding peacock bit me.”

Donovan’s expression was mulish. “If we can just-”

“It’s been six hours and we’ve got nothing.”

“That’s not true,” said Anderson from where he was lying face-down on the floor and tweezing carpet fibres. “There’s my theory about-”

“Shut up about the Pope, Anderson. I don’t care _what_ your brother-in-law told you about what goes on in Rome, this is not a Catholic conspiracy.” 

Lestrade fixed them both with his most commanding expression. It didn’t seem to have much effect. “I don’t care if you like it or not,” he said, turning his attention back to his phone and typing laboriously on the tiny keys. “If we can just bear with him for ten minutes then we might actually get to go home at some point tonight.”

Lestrade didn’t hold out much hope. 

….

 

Sherlock finally swanned onto the scene twenty minutes later, John quietly in tow.

“Good evening Sally,” he said breezily. “You’re looking well.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Piss off.”

“Over here, Sherlock,” said Lestrade before a row could kick off. Sherlock obeyed, which Lestrade found slightly disconcerting, and he did so with a smile on his face, which was frankly terrifying. 

“Isn’t it a lovely evening?” 

Lestrade looked at Sherlock - shining eyes, a healthy glow on his cheeks, an overall air of smug satisfaction - and thought _shit_. He outlined the facts as quickly as he could, pointed Sherlock in the direction of the corpses and hastened over to the corner of the room where John was patiently waiting.

“You bastard,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?”

“Alright, maybe it’s not entirely your fault, but you’ve got to get him away.”

John gave him a concerned look, as if he thought Lestrade had been working too many hours and maybe needed to take some holiday. Lestrade was very familiar with that look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s _high_! Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.”

John looked at Sherlock and shrugged, holding his hands up in a ‘what?’ gesture. Sherlock was kneeling down beside Anderson and having what looked like an intense conversation.

“Yes, that’s not a bad theory, but what you have to take into account with the Catholic church is-”

Lestade pointed. “See? That’s not natural.”

“Ah.” John raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and, to Lestrade’s astonishment, went ever so slightly pink. “I can promise you, Sherlock isn’t high. Definitely.”

Lestrade looked at him. “You didn’t.”

John inclined his head. “You’re welcome.”

 

..

 

“Good case yesterday,” said John over breakfast the next day. He was pleasantly soft and rumpled and had a sort of sleepy glow about him. If Sherlock had known regular sex would have this effect on him, he’d have leapt into John’s bed ages ago.

He hummed around his toast. “A six.”

“Is that all?” John turned the page of his newspaper. “You worked the whole thing out from the fact that the peacock had one damaged feather. It was incredible.”

“Mm.” John clearly had only half his attention on the paper. Sherlock had a horrible suspicion a Cluedo-themed blog post was looming in the near-future.

“Coo-oo,” called Mrs Hudson. “Did you not hear the door? These came for you, John.” She held out a large bunch of flowers, which Sherlock deftly intercepted. Then she scrunched up her nose at Sherlock and winked for no discernible reason before bustling off.

“They’re from Lestrade.” He narrowed his eyes at John. “Why is Lestrade sending you flowers?” 

”No idea. What does the card say?”

Sherlock flipped the card over and read the message. Then read it again before looking up and fixing John with his sharpest stare. “They’re addressed to your penis.”

“He’s a complicated man,” said John, unperturbed. “I’ll go and see if Mrs Hudson has a vase she can lend us.” And with that he strode off whistling. 

Sherlock tapped the card thoughtfully on the table. The scent of lilac filled his nostrils. He was _almost_ certain that this was socially inappropriate.

He shrugged and made himself another slice of toast.


End file.
